The Thing Is
by Dartington
Summary: Sharon Raydor worries about the nature of her relationship with Brenda Leigh Johnson. Discussion ensues. The story begins in The Closer Universe, but will transition into Major Crimes, should updates occur. Sharon Raydor/Brenda Leigh Johnson.


"The thing is, _Brenda_, that you're married."

"_You're_ married!" Brenda shot back, defensively.

Sharon paused, pressed her lips together and gazed inscrutably at the Chief. "Yes," she finally breathed, "That's true. The difference is, however, that you actually _like_ your husband and—

"You like _your_ husband! Or you wouldn't still be married to him!" Brenda replied hotly. She was wound up, frustrated. She could practically feel her body vibrating with ire. She didn't understand why this insufferable woman had to keep bringin' up her…situation…with Frizi! "This, in spite of y'alls twenty-year 'separation' which in my neck of the woods we'd call—"

Sharon put up a hand. Stop. She didn't want to know what Brenda's neck of the woods called anything, certainly not anything as lingering as this god-forsaken 'separation' with that open-wound, Jackson. She needed space, distance from Brenda. She could practically see the energy coming off the woman. Sharon moved carefully behind her desk. There. Space. The final frontier. In spite of everything, Sharon found herself teetering on the edge of wild, inappropriate laughter. Her head was spinning. Were they really about to engage in an adult version of "Are too! Am not!" with each other? And then what? "I am rubber and you are glue?" Stop, she chided herself. She was becoming tangential. Get back into the conversation and out of your head.

But that had always been Sharon's problem, an ability to too easily run multiple trains of thought, multiple points of view—synchronized head space, assessing, dissecting, re-directing thought and action. If it was a flaw, it was also her greatest strength. But in personal interactions and intimate settings it could seem removed, calculating—because it was. And yet, she wasn't a cold person, it was just…choosing, carefully, between the _better_ right thing to do required focus and attention. It required—Stop. Get back into _now_, Sharon, she told herself. She's staring at you.

Brenda had been watching Sharon with growing agitation and now, slowly mounting panic. She'd been scanning Sharon's face for signs of what in God's Green Kingdom that woman might be thinking. And she knew that look. She knew that giant brain of Sharon's was going a million miles an hour. She also knew Sharon wasn't ever unfair or petty—not about anything that truly mattered. And that's where Brenda's panic stemmed from. Sharon always did the right thing. At Sharon's expense she'd always do the right thing. And what was going on between them was far from right. Did it feel good ? Oh, yes! Was it satisfying, exciting? Did it make her toes curl and her stomach clench with anticipation? Yes and always more yeses. When Sharon sauntered by in those pencil skirts and killer heels…Ugh! God yes! But could it ever be more than those moments? Brenda didn't allow herself to finish that train of thought. She could feel her pulse jumping in her neck. What was happening here? It was moving too fast. She felt dizzy, uneven. Sharon was deciding things—right now—and Brenda was arriving late again. She had to stop, this instant, and get back on track. Now. She couldn't let Sharon's runaway freight-brain derail the one truly happy space in her life.

Sharon was already talking, glancing at Brenda from over her glasses, already shifting papers into stacks on her desk—tidying up! Brenda realized with alarm—and what was she saying?

"…whereas _my_ husband, when he stopped drinking, turned to gambling. Replacing one addiction with another, one destructive behavior for a new and, financially, worse one. To say nothing of the lying and the virtual abandonment of our children. Yes, I took vows over twenty years ago, Brenda. I pledged myself, on my _honor_, to value that relationship. Yes, my husband has broken faith with me; my marriage, too, is broken. But my _word_ is _not_. Agent Howard, _your_ husband, is a good man. He's not only still sober, he's _contributing_, Brenda. And he loves you. What do we do with that? Do we just ignore another person's feelings? _Ignore_ the fact of your very present, very kind, very not-separated-from-you-husband, simply because," she shrugged her shoulders, "we turn each other on? How can I still honor the vow I made to my man, and ignore the one you made to yours? How can _you?"_

Brenda saw the small, sad smile that gentled Sharon's features, softening her blunt assessment. She held her gaze, heart hammering in her chest. For heaven's sake, when had they reached this point? Yesterday they were holed up in Sharon's condo, snuggled under her covers and gigglin' over nothin' really, just post-coital silliness. It was a side to Sharon she loved—_loved! _That open, unguarded woman, a glimpse into what she must have been like long ago, before she walled off from her associates and that professional FID distance crept into everything she did. When Sharon Raydor was naked, languid and groggily blissed out…well, it was just breath-takin' was what it was. It was just—just _incredible_. Like the gooiest, sugariest, best decadent treat in the world! Like a secret wrapped up in sex, like all those thrillin' undercover jobs she used to pull back with the FBI…It felt amazing but was it right? And it couldn't be dating, because Brenda was married. And Sharon was too, in fact if not in essence. So what if it was exciting and titillating and just all little bit dangerous? That just made it illicit, or French, or something buzz-worthy. But did it make it real? Was what she _felt_ with Sharon stronger than, or truer than, what she _had_ with Fritzi? Brenda clenched her sweaty palms, allowing her fingernails to bite into her flesh. She squeezed her eyes shut and winced. Ugh. Women. Women with integrity. Why so complicated?

Sharon, eyes wide with worry, found herself rapidly rounding her table, automatically reaching out to Brenda. When had this started, this body moving without input from her brain? Where would her feet propel her next? But unerringly, she moved toward the Chief, one hand gentling a tight and whitening fist, the other caressing Brenda's shoulder, soothing the distressed woman. See? This was the problem! Her body just reacted around Brenda. One minute she was making sound arguments in a reasonable tone, the next, she was holding the visibly upset younger woman. "Shhh," she heard herself saying, "Shh, shh, Brenda Leigh. My Brenda, shhh." The hell?! And was that _her_ body that was gently swaying Brenda in their embrace? She rolled her eyes at her reflection in the window. Pitiful. Ridiculous. What was wrong with her? After a few beats, she felt herself being gently pushed away, but Brenda didn't remove her hands from Sharon's arms. Instead, she kept them there, gripping her Captain as though she feared she might simply disappear.

If Sharon was uncomfortable, she didn't show it. But for pity's sake! This wasn't how this was supposed to go! Why couldn't the Capt'n see that it didn't have to be complicated or—well—really thought out at all! Why, sometimes you just had to _ride_ a thing out, and you got a sense of what it was while you were doin' it, so to speak. It didn't all have to be rules and thinkin' and planning things to the nth degree. Heck, she hadn't even figured out how she felt about _Fritzi_ until well into the marriage! Which…well, maybe that wasn't really doin' so good after all, but anyway—not _everything_ had to be nailed down, carved in stone, stuck-in-mud-done to be understood! She knew it was selfish, and probably wrong and certainly didn't hold up well under scrutiny, but Brenda needed Sharon. Needed her in a way that felt both right and reckless. She took a deep, shuddering breath and suddenly realized she was squeezing the pulse out of her patiently waiting subordinate. Immediately she released her grip, stepped back and away from Sharon, resting her hip against the table. She was amped-up and woozy. She couldn't help the nervous chuckle that escaped her lips. What was wrong with her?

Sharon, made no comment, just mindlessly rubbed the sore area of silk sleeves Brenda had only moments before been ruining, and raised her eyebrow. Brenda, The _Chief_, she corrected herself, was worrying her. How would she ever get this woman back to task, focused on her career and and away from the, admittedly wonderful, distraction of sharing her bed? It wasn't right. First and foremost, there was Agent Howard to consider, and now this young boy...what was his name? Rusty? that had renewed Brenda's obsession with Philip Stroh. She's have to put a pin in that. And hadn't she just gotten the woman (mostly) off the hook? She wasn't sure she was prepared for any more complications. Brenda confused her. How she felt about Brenda confused her. She needed time to think. It just wasn't right. It wasn't right at all.

Brenda for her part, felt a renewed sense of purpose. Everything would work out because it had to. It just did. Sure, she'd played fast 'n' loose in the past, but frankly the last year had changed her. She loved Fritzi, she really did and Sharon wasn't wrong; he was a good man. Brenda needed to get right with him, with everyone in her life. She owed Fritz time and they needed to talk. She could do that. Life was short, people were fragile, and she might not be worth the salt in her husband's bread, but she knew she could be good for Sharon. But Rulebook Raydor? How would she ever get past her? How could she convince her beautiful, upright, stubborn, principled, oh-so-Catholic, impossible, wonderful control-freak to let go? 'And let God?' irrationally popped into her head. No, she reasoned, that wasn't the right tactic _at all._


End file.
